


Kneel and Rue

by elesary



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Organized Crime, Protective Andrew Minyard, Singer Neil Josten, Songwriting, drummer Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27625013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elesary/pseuds/elesary
Summary: Kevin Day shows up with an offer Neil can't turn down, not even to save his own life. Help Andrew Minyard write The Monster's next album, become Jos10, the newest opening act for Foxhole Records. With his butcher of a father in jail and his mother dead, Neil has a few months to savor this chance before it is ripped from his fingers.But Riko, Kevin's oldest nightmare, knows enough about Neil to be dangerous, to clip his wings before he can even get off the ground. Uncle Stuart might have a way out, but the price might be too dear for even Neil to pay. With everything on the line, his life, his passion, a man that makes Neil want to stay, how long can Neil keep his cover, and what will he lose when it all falls apart?or,Neil joins a band, gets laid and starts a mob war, ft. a truly bizarre mix of songs I'm pretending that the foxes wrote.
Relationships: Katelyn/Aaron Minyard, Matt Boyd/Danielle "Dan" Wilds, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Nicky Hemmick/Erik Klose
Comments: 25
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome to the inevitable band au. 
> 
> Here are some playlists I've made for this fic: 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3b0iUF648hswKlcDvYIYlH?si=cb8ccada6d464446
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5S30z5zSNQy8b8d1qp21Vv?si=bf490933dc734c1b
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0TKIPEjUoAULCWpuWec2vC?si=d122886e5a574666

Smoke is everywhere. In his hair, burning his eyes, clinging to his clothing. He collapses on the black sands, unable to tear his eyes away from the wreckage, boiling fire licking at the sky. He needs to run, car fires tend to draw attention. But his mother is there, she is there and even though she would kill him for it  _ he cannot leave her _ . 

He watches, hidden by dune, as the sun begins to rise, spray and dew hissing on the warped metal as the flames finally begin to die. Methodically, he empties his backpack and opens his mother’s duffel bag. Four t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a change of socks, his mother's gun, a notebook and a binder. There is room to spare in the duffel bag. He picks up the notebook, turns it in his hands. It makes him want to cry, he wants to hug it and throw it into the ocean. He can’t help but glance around stealthily as he opens it. It’s a secret, one his mother would not tolerate. In the end, she was right, keeping his secrets led to her death. He just, he never expected to outlive her. He throws his duffel over his shoulder and with a longing, hateful look, he shoves the notebook to the bottom of the backpack and looks over to the car, still belching black smoke, noxious with burning rubber and melted flesh. 

On numb legs he creeps closer, open backpack in his shaking hands. His mother’s skull, blackened from the choking smoke, grins up at him and he has to pause twice to vomit and retch as he pulls her bones apart and out of the furnace and into the back pack, coating his notebook in gasoline and bodily fluids. 

He manages ten steps towards the surf before his legs give out and he collapses into the damp sand. He's sobbing as he digs, pulling clumping handfuls of wet sand from the hole that keeps refilling. His chest is tearing open and caving in on itself with each choked whimper. The fog rolls in, making everything gray and cold. His mother’s bones are still hot, searing his leg from inside the backpack next to him as he digs. And digs. And digs. 

It is- too much. The bag goes into the hole and he shoves the sand back over it, the dampness smoothing out the lumps and resettling the surface, as if it were never disturbed. As if his mother never existed at all. 

As the sun continues to rise, he remains on his knees in the wet sand. He waits for someone to find him, Lola or his father or the cops. His mother would hit him for staying so long with her bones, but now she can’t. She can’t because she is dead and it is his fault. His own damn fault. 

_ They had been in Seattle for three weeks before Alex broke and crept out of the motel room while his mother worked her overnight shift at the gas station. He had spotted the bar purely by accident, leaning against the window as they drove to the motel. Alex’s eyes had been unfocused until they caught on the flashing neon sign outside of the closed, dingy building, advertising an open mic night Saturdays and Sundays. _

_ Alex forced himself to remain calm, to not react or tense or give any indication that he had noticed the sign. If his mom thought he had even seen it, let alone that it interested him, she would make sure he’d be unable to leave the room without his bruises drawing too much attention. He forced his eyes closed, and his mind away from the allure of performing. It was dangerous, he knew, but he had never been able to get rid of his boundless drive to sing on a stage.  _

_ He had loved music for as long as he could remember, it had been the only good thing about his life in Baltimore, when his afternoons were spent in music lessons and with his guitar. For a shining moment he felt truly happy, in Evermore Studios, playing with Kevin Day and Riko Moriyama. He had brought in a song that he had written, and Kevin had liked it and urged Riko to try it, and it had sounded good. But then they had been summoned upstairs, and they had to watch his father do his bloody work. And that night, his mother had yanked him out of bed, and smashed his guitar when he had cried over leaving it behind.  _

_ Since that night his mother had tried to beat the music out of him countless times, with limited success. He no longer talked to her about it, or mentioned it, or turned the radio up. He made sure to keep his notebook hidden and only wrote songs when he could pass them off as homework. And only on the rarest of occasions, when he truly couldn’t help himself, did he wait until she left for her night shifts and find a bar with an open mic and a lax ID policy.  _

_ That last night, in Seattle, had been one of those nights. It was risky, two nights in a row, but Alex hadn’t been able to stay away, not after the way he felt the night before. The music had just flowed through him, painting the whole world in glorious color and melody and he had been lost.  _

_ And, apparently, found. He wasn’t sure how, but the Malcolm siblings had followed him, and by the time he had spotted them, he was too close to the motel to do anything but run. By the time he had realized they were herding him towards the abandoned warehouses that lined the waterfront, he had spotted his mother, already bound and being broken and that was really all they had ever needed. Alex had always been easily controlled, if they had the right collateral.  _

_ And then Nathan appeared and the whole world dissolved into pain and fear and runrunrun. While he was distracted by Mary, Alex had managed to palm a shard of broken glass from the floor and cut his own ties. When the sirens wailed towards them, Alex had used the distraction to free his mother and they had limped away, stealing a car and racing down the coast. He still wasn’t sure what had attracted the police’s attention, or if his father and the Malcolm’s had gotten away, but he knew it was his fault they had been found.  _

_ He must have been spotted at the bar that first night, and he led them right to his mother. She was right about how dangerous music was. He couldn’t even begin to think about the pain he’d be in, when she recovered enough to make him pay for it.  _

But she had never recovered. By the time he had crossed the border to California, she must have known she was dying. That was when she had begun making him promise to  _ always keep running, be anyone but himself, and never anyone for too long  _ over and over and over again, until she had drifted back off to sleep. The next sound she had made had been the sickening peel of her bloody body off the vinyl seats, not unlike velcro being torn apart. 

He slips his numb fingers into his back pocket and pulls out his last passport, matching fake ID tucked into the pages. “Neil Josten,” he says, trying it out. “My name is Neil Josten.” 

Neil Josten stands up, brushes as much wet sand off his clothes as he can and walks away from his mother’s grave without looking back. It’s seven miles inland to the nearest greyhound bus stop from Bodega Bay, the beach town just north of San Francisco he had stopped in when he realized his mother was dead. It takes him two hours and fifteen minutes to get there, and he spends the time concocting his history, and then repeating it as many ways as he can think of, so it won’t sound rehearsed when he tells it. 

Neil gets on the first bus to roll up to the dusty stop. It’s heading Southeast, to Phoenix. Neil buys a ticket all the way there, but he’ll get off sometime before that. No one can trace him when even he doesn’t know where he’s going. 

He curls around his duffel in the back of the bus, winding his arms through the strap so no one can touch it without him knowing and sinks into his own mind. He floats in a shallow bubble, head bumping against the grimy window. When the bus stops for gas or passengers, he moves with the flow strangers to rest stops and bathrooms and falsely cheerful snack aisles. No one pays him much attention, all of them have something to hide. Neil still keeps his head down. 

Somewhere just over the border to Arizona, Neil finds himself frozen, staring at a dirty display of cheap composition notebooks, two for $1. He can’t move, mind flickering from dive bars to fire and sand, melody beating him over the head. His fingers itch to write, if he opens his mouth he knows he won’t be able to stop singing. 

His obsession with music had literally killed his mother  _ three days ago _ , and lyrics were already clawing their way out of him.  _ This will be the death of me, _ he thinks a little hysterically. The greyhound is leaving in less than two minutes. The last stragglers are hurrying to the bus. Neil shoves his hand through his dyed hair and snatches two of the notebooks, tossing a crumpled dollar at the clerk as he jogs back into the hot night. It isn’t until two hours later, when his stomach begins to growl that Neil realizes he forgot to buy food. In disgust, he shoves the notebooks to the bottom of his bag and vows to never touch them, they make him so stupid. 

Neil gets off the bus when it stops for gas in Millport, a dying town between Flagstaff and Phoenix. There’s no stop here, and it doesn't appear on any of the maps Neil had pored over on the long hours through the desert. It's a good place to stop, at least until he gets his bearings. Just looking around at the empty, dusty streets, Neil bets there are countless empty houses for him to squat in. Neil could be safe here, if only for a few weeks. 

Even though no one is on the main street, Neil pulls his hood over his face as he walks, clutching his duffel. He feels the notebooks hit his leg with each step. He tries to distract himself by locating a cheap motel. He pays for two nights, enough time for him to re-dye his hair and figure out which house is the best for him to crash at. The woman who takes his money hardly looks up from her computer screen. 

As soon as Neil has a locked door between him and the world he pulls the gun out of the duffle and takes it apart efficiently, making sure rust hasn’t set in from the damp of the beach and subsequent neglect. He puts it back together and places it within reach on the dresser as he stares at binder. 

On first glance, it looks like a fan shrine to The Raven’s, the immensely popular emo-pop band that took the world by storm until a year and a half ago when Kevin Day, the guitar player and second vocalist shattered his playing hand while on a ski trip with his band mates. It’s meant to be noticed and dismissed with a faint feeling of second hand embarrassment for the teenage boy who carries something  _ like that _ around. It’s not entirely misdirection, Neil is painfully obsessed with the band he could have been part of, but it’s still just a cover for the quarter million dollars and pages of underworld contacts Neil keeps with him at all times. 

Neil just doesn’t know what to do with it, now that he’s in the room. Usually, he would find a place to stash it until he needed it, but without his mother to watch his back he has no idea how fast he will have to run. He guesses it's just safer to keep it within arms reach, so he brings it and the gun into the bathroom with him. 

He feels so dirty that his skin is crawling, and his hair has become so greasy he’s starting to break out at his hairline. When was the last time he showered? Seattle? He still hasn’t washed his mother’s last hits off of his skin. For a moment, it feels like a betrayal to consider it, but then he steps under the hot water and can’t suppress the moan that emerges from his throat as he sags into it. 

The hot water strips him bare and he allows himself a few moments to be a teenage boy who has held his mother’s bones. He slides bonelessly to the bottom of the tub and lets himself sob. The hot water runs out before his tears do, but it seems like an appropriate time to pull himself together, so he does. He rubs his skin raw with the scratchy towel and pulls on his spare outfit. He leaves his contacts out, but puts the plastic case on the bedside table so they can be replaced first thing in the morning. 

The room is silent, a door slams down the hall, the air conditioner kicks on, humming loudly. Neil is cold and desperately lonely so he curls himself into the cheap comforter and turns on the T.V. just for background noise. He drifts for a while, listening as the reporter prattles on about stocks and the economy. “ _ In other news, businessman Nathan Wesninski was arrested in Seattle on Saturday…” _ The words hit Neil like a bucket of ice water and shoots upright, hand steady on the gun as he looks around wildly. He wants to run, he wants to spit blood, he wants to scream, he wants- he wants to see his mothers face as she watches the footage of Nathan in handcuffs. Neil drops the gun and turns up the volume to catch the tail end of the report. It’s just a minor financial crime, made worse by crossing state lines, but the FBI will cling to it until they can get him on something else. 

It doesn’t matter to Neil, he’s free, if only for Nathan’s eighteen month sentence. Maybe less, depending on how organized and vengeful Lola and DiMaccio are feeling. 

He’s still doomed, his life’s clock is still ticking ever down, but it’s enough stolen time to break his resolve. Unable to resist, he opens his duffel and pulls out a notebook and lyrics, too raw and honest to be ever heard, lick out of his fingers like fire, setting his soul aflame. 

\--

It only takes Neil two days to throw away every lesson his mom beat into him and find a bar. Dingoes is a dive, dark and dirty, with sticky tables and cheap beer, but it has a small roster of average-at-best musicians that perform most evenings. Neil sneaks in and nurses a soda from a shadowy corner, eyes fixed on the tiny stage. 

Hernandez, the bartender and owner of the bar isn’t blind. Neil should run when he offers him a place to crash in exchange for barbacking. Neil should have grabbed his stuff, hopped on a bus and started over somewhere far, far away the first time Hernandez noticed him. Instead, he had nodded and  _ stayed _ . 

Neil gets on that stage after less than a week of seething jealousy for the other performers. Three weeks later, he starts singing his own songs. He is so, so stupid, but every time he steps up to that mic and the lights turn on, he remembers that he is real, that he is alive, and he can’t give that up.  _ Besides,  _ he thinks as he curls up on the beaten to shit couch in the back room,  _ who is going to find him in Millport? _

\--

“David Wymack,” the man says, holding out a thick hand for Neil to shake. 

Neil ignores it, staring at the tribal flame tattoos adorning his arms. “Foxhole Records,” he says through numb lips. 

Wymack lowers his hand. “So you’ve heard of us! Good, I’ve got your contract right here-”

Neil stumbles backwards. Of course he’s heard of Foxhole Records, it's probably the most controversial record company in the business. David Wymack formed it less than ten years ago, and since then he has only signed troubled musicians. The bands were talented, but barely a month past without some scandal rocking the music world - drug overdoses, arrests, brawls breaking out mid set between band mates. 

Most recently, however, Foxhole Records has been in the news because after Kevin Day broke his hand and left The Ravens, he showed up in South Carolina and signed with them. He formed a band, The Monsters, with drugged out ex-con Andrew Minyard, his twin brother Aaron and their cousin Nicky Hemmick. And that’s why Wymack can’t be here. One degree of separation is way too close to be to Kevin Day. Wymack’s still talking, telling him about how Hernandez had sent him a video, one of Neil’s original songs and how they needed to come out here and sign him. 

Neil freezes. They.  _ They needed to come out here- _

Neil turns on his heel and runs. 

He doesn’t get far. As he darts towards the open door, a short blond man with a fish hook smile steps through it, twirling drumsticks with practiced ease. Before Neil can dodge or change directions, Andrew Minyard, The Monsters drummer, swings the drumsticks into his stomach. 

Neil goes down. The oxygen is ripped from his lungs. All he can do is lie on his back and stare at the faces that peer down at him, Wymack with concern, Andrew with empty joy and Kevin, _fuckin_ _g_ Kevin, frowning at him like Neil’s the problem. “Dammit, Minyard! This is why we can’t have nice things!” Wymack snaps. 

“Oh Coach, if he were nice we wouldn’t have any use for him, would we?”

“Get up, Neil, I don’t have time for this.” Kevin says, snapping his fingers impatiently. It’s an impressive show of dexterity for someone with a supposedly crippled hand. “Sign the papers, so we can get out of here.”

“Fuck you!” Neil gasps, trying to convince himself that the sinking in his stomach is from the hit he just took, and not because of how much closer this interaction has brought him to his death. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Kevin snaps. “You’re a talented songwriter and a passable singer, but no one else will sign you. So get the fuck up, sign the papers and stop wasting my time.”

Neil laughs, a short- pained sound. Kevin doesn’t recognize him. It’s a relief, but every moment he’s with Kevin it becomes more likely. “You can’t be here,” he says, but it’s too late. 

“Andrew needs help writing the next album,” Kevin says, reaching down and pulling Neil to his feet, as if Neil hasn’t said anything. 

Andrew levels Neil with a look that is a pure threat.  _ Run _ it says,  _ see how quickly I can break you. _ “Oh, Kev,” He says, all artificial sweetness, “I don’t need anything. You should know that by now.”

Neil tenses to run, reconsiders. “Song writing. You want me to help you write your songs?” His father is in jail, his mother is dead. There’s is no one in the world to stop him from making that final stupid decision that’ll seal his terrible fate. 

“To start out. But-” 

Neil holds out a hand to shut him up. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.” He has a few months to live, at best. Going with Kevin is going to get him caught and killed. He killed his mother and now he’s going to kill himself. He might as well go piss on her grave. He bites back another hysterical laugh and takes the pen Wymack hands him. He really is too stupid to live. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: gore in a nightmare

Neil stands at the gate and fantasizes about running. He still could, he knows, ditch  _ Neil Josten _ , get on another plane to another city, maybe another country. Tear up Wymack’s contract and make his fathers people actually work for it, if they’re going to kill him. He tries to convince himself to run. Maybe his last chance. But he just...can’t. Won’t. 

He gets on the plane. His duffel goes beneath the seat in front of him, strap wrapped around his ankle so it can’t be pulled away from him and he fights his flinch as a burly man plops down in the seat next to him. Neil has never been on a plane without his mother’s body between him and the cabin and he misses that fierce, defensive force more than he misses her. Neil glares out the window and counts to a hundred and back again, cycling through his languages over and over again. 

It is raining when the plane lands at Upstate Regional Airport. Thick drops land, coalesce and then slide down the thick windowpane as Neil peers out at the airport. It is stormdark even though it’s the middle of the day. Lights blur and shine from the luggage carts, buildings and airplanes. He can already taste the heavy petrichor he’ll be confronted with as soon as he leaves the recycled, artificially cool air of the plane and airport. 

_ Run _ . He tells himself as he exits the plane in fits and starts.  _ Run or die _ .

Andrew is waiting for him by baggage claim. “Luggage?” the blond asks. His sickening, eerie smile is replaced by bored indifference. 

Neil pats his duffel, tilting his head curiously. “This is everything. I thought your parole stipulated that you had to be medicated all the time.”

Andrew freezes for one heartbeat, blinking at him with  _ something _ in his golden eyes. It’s gone before Neil is even sure it existed. “Andrew has a twin, dumbass. I’m Aaron.”

_ Right _ . Andrew does have a twin, and they are really identical. They have the exact same shoulder breadth and carry their tension the same way. Neil would have sworn that the man in front of him was Andrew off his medication, but Aaron makes more sense. After all, it would be ridiculously stupid to risk being caught violating his parole by someone who actively hates his guts the way Neil does. 

Neil just shrugs, he doesn’t really care after all. “Whatever.”

Aaron turns on his heel and marches towards the sliding doors. He doesn’t look back to see if Neil is following, just marches out into the heavy mugginess of the South Carolina air. 

Aaron’s car is black and looks expensive and well cared for. Aaron pops the trunk and looks meaningfully at the empty space, clearly waiting for Neil to put his bag inside. Neil does not want to let go of his bag. It has his money and contact list and lyrics and everything he owns in the world. But to hold on to it so desperately would rouse suspicion and few other eighteen year olds are so paranoid. 

He puts it in the trunk but he’s dithered too long. Aaron is staring at him speculatively, head tilted just a bit to the side. If Neil hates Andrew, he fears Aaron, who sees far too much for someone with such empty eyes. Neil shuts the trunk just a little bit too firmly, and tells himself to keep his big mouth closed. Aaron taps out a cigarette and lights up, leaning up against the car. Neil steels himself, but the scent still sends him tumbling into memories of his mother: musty hotel rooms, countless stretches of highway, her mumbles in his ear as she stitches him up, how the pain still pierced the alcohol induced fog, no matter how much he drank. 

“Neil Josten,” Aaron says, “Here to write for us. Kevin’s determined to get you to sing, you know.”

“Kevin’s here?” Neil asks, “I thought you guys were taking a break before starting the next album.”

Aaron drops the cigarette butt and they get into the car before he responds. “Where the studio is, Kevin is. He can’t exist without it.”

Aaron pays the lady in the booth. Neil fixes his eyes out the window, determined to ignore the unsettling man next to him. He doesn’t care about Kevin.  _ He doesn’t. _

Aaron drives like a maniac, zipping in between lanes on the freeway like his life depends on it. The last time Neil was in a similar situation, he was driving, and his life did depend on it. He doesn’t appreciate the sympathetic adrenaline his body produces in reaction. Aaron notices. “Don’t be so afraid to die,” he says, sending the car gliding across three lanes and onto the off ramp to a chorus of angry horns. “If you are, you have no place writing for us.”

“It’s just music,” Neil replies as Aaron screams to a stop, parking haphazardly in the loading zone in front of a glaringly orange building sporting “Foxhole Records” in crooked white letters across the front. 

Aaron shoots Neil a glance as they get out of the car. “Not for people like us. Or you, if Kevin is to be believed.”

Neil doesn’t have a response for that, too focused on getting his hands on his bag again. By the time he looks up, four men are staring at him. Kevin is frowning at him disapprovingly already, though Neil can’t imagine how he’s already disappointed. Next to him, a tall, caramel-skinned man is grinning, eyeing him with approval. “ _ He’s so pretty. You didn’t tell us he was so pretty, Andrew!”  _ He says in german. Neil wonders absently how they know he speaks german, before realizing that they likely don’t. 

He is far more interested in the twins, who are standing next to each other in the same clothing. “You’re a liar,” Neil says to the grinning twin, who is slipping something into his pocket. If Neil were a betting man, he’d put money on it being his bottle of pills. 

“Whatever could you mean, Neil?” Andrew asks brightly, tilting his head and closing one eye and then the other. He lifts his thumb and tries to stare at Neil through it, shifting it over an inch or two when he switches eyes. 

“ _ Aaron, _ my ass. Does Wymack know you’re fucking with your meds?”

There’s a beat of shocked silence, and then-

“Did he just-”

“Jesus, Andrew-”

Andrew clicks his tongue and everyone behind him falls silent. “Oh, where do these ideas of yours come from, Neil? You should really use your imagination for more creative pursuits, hmmm? Maybe songwriting, for example!” Andrew claps his hands and strides towards the double doors, flinging them open with a flourish and disappearing inside without looking back. 

Aaron shoots Neil an indecipherable look and pulls Nicky with him as he follows his twin inside. “Come on, Neil, we have a lot to do,” Kevin commands. Neil clenches his fist around the strap of his bag, but he follows without argument. This is why he’s here, after all.

The inside of the building is as beaten up and orange as the outside, but it feels warm and lived in and homey. It is a distinctly unfamiliar feeling for Neil, but he thinks he might like it. He follows Kevin through an empty lobby and several twisting hallways, past recording studios and offices and they finally emerge into a rowdy lounge. 

Without glancing back, Kevin marches over to The Monsters, who are half-heartedly arguing with the other group. Neil recognizes The Foxes instantly. A bit more pop than The Monsters, The Foxes are more famous and successful, but they still make negative headlines almost as often, usually because of bass player Seth Gordon’s recurring drug problem or his off and on romance with keyboard player and back up vocalist Allison Reynolds. 

The bands clearly struggle to get along, Seth and Nicky are sniping at each other, seemingly held in check only by Andrew, who looks on with a smile, cleaning his fingernails with a knife. Neil eyes him carefully and makes sure to keep the majority of the room between them, having spent too much time with Lola to trust anyone who had both a knife and a smile to want to be anywhere near the blond man. 

“Shut up all of you!” Wymack barks as he storms in, paperwork in his arms and eyes fastened on Neil. 

Neil flinches back reflexively, immediately drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Wymack stops walking immediately, making sure to give Neil his space. Matt Boyd, The Foxes guitar player and Danielle Wildes, front woman and main singer both frown. Allison Reynolds tilts her head and eyes Neil critically over her nails and Renee Walker, their drummer and songwriter looks sad and far too knowledgeable. Neil makes a mental note to stay as far away from her as he can. She glances over at Andrew, who’s smile widens as she catches his eye. 

Rather inconvenient, to be wary of both songwriters, who he’ll have to work closely with, but Neil has never been able to do anything the easy way. 

“This is Neil Josten,” Wymack says, “singer-songwriter. We’ll have to get you a guitar, unless you brought one. No? Okay, Kevin you can take care of that. He's signed under the name Jos10, and he’ll work with Renee and tiny psycho over hear on both albums while he writes his own. Got it? Anything to add Neil?”

“Yeah, couple things,” Neil snaps. “I don’t need a guitar,” he just really,  _ really _ wanted one. “And I have zero intentions of making my own album or getting anywhere near a microphone or stage. I am here to write, that's it.”

“Nonsense,” Kevin says, “You’re being ridiculous. You need-”

“Hey, Kev!” Andrew cuts in, eyes wide and innocent. “One of us needs to get our ears checked Kevin, because I swear he just said  _ no _ .” 

“Knock it off!” Wymack barks before Kevin can argue. “We’ll take what we can get, kid,” he turns back to Neil. “Here’re your keys. The big one is for the studio and the smaller one is for your apartment. You are welcome here anytime. Matt? Can you take him shopping and show him the apartments? Yes? Good. Get out of my hair, all of you!”

Neil catches the small keychain and stares at it. He has never had keys before, never had a place he was allowed to just  _ go  _ to. Especially not a recording studio. He can’t breathe through the lump in his throat. 

“Hey, man,” Matt Boyd says, clapping Neil on the shoulder slowly enough that Neil can track the movement. “Ready to go?”

Neil clenches his keys in his fist and nods. “I don’t need much,” he says. 

Obviously eavesdropping from across the room, Allison snorts. “You have groceries and dishes and towels and sheets in that little bag? Right,” She rolls her eyes. “Take him away, Matt!”

“I don’t need-”

“Wow, Neil. You can tone down the pathetic a bit, you know, they’ll still adopt you like a sad, widdle puppy.” Andrew loudly whispers, winking conspiratorially. 

Neil opens his mouth to snap back, and then mashes his lips together, trying to stifle his rage. Neil Josten is supposed to be meek and quiet. Neil Josten would never go toe to toe with anyone, let alone someone as psychotic as Andrew Minyard. He counts to ten in French, German and Spanish, and then follows Matt out of the room. 

As it turns out, Wymack hasn’t so much sent Matt to shop  _ with  _ Neil as he has sent him to shop  _ for  _ Neil. Matt keeps up a steady stream of friendly chatter from the moment they climb into his massive, cherry red truck until he leaves Neil standing in his new apartment, surrounded by bags. He feels shell shocked and a little bit warm, looking around at all of the stuff he has now, not just the basics for survival, but things designed to make him comfortable and “feel at home”.

“We are happy you’re here, man,” Matt had said, looking at Neil earnestly. “We’re a dysfunctional bunch, but this place has become home to all of us. It can be home for you too, if you let it.” 

The Foxes live in the penthouse of the building, a far cry from Neil’s tiny studio, but he has a fire escape and is closer to the ground, so he’s content. The Monsters, Matt tells him, turned their noses up at the apartment Wymack had offered them and instead stay in their house in the suburbs. Neil would bet that it was mostly the twins who made that decision; Nicky seems desperately friendly and Kevin would want to be near the studio. It’s interesting that the youngest, smallest men (one man in particular) seems to have such complete control over the group. 

Neil shakes his head and begins to unpack. 

The sun has set by the time Neil’s found a place for all of his new  _ stuff. _ It's so overwhelming that it sends him into a panic attack until he packs and repacks his duffle and rearticulates the gun he had broken down and seperated to get it through airport security. By the time he can breathe again, his stomach reminds him that he hasn’t eaten since the orange he’d stolen in the airport back in Arizona. He walks into his kitchen and pulls out a can of soup which he eats out of the pot as soon as it’s warm enough to almost be palatable. 

Neil abandons the pot in the sink and wanders back to the window and debates going on a run. He needs to learn the neighborhood as soon as he can, all the back alleys and hiding places he can take advantage of when his father comes for him. He sits on his bed to pull on his shoes and is immediately struck with how soft and warm it is. He hasn’t had a bed since that nightmare house in Baltimore.  _ Five minutes _ , he promises himself. 

He’s asleep in two. 

_ He’s in the basement. It’s dark and he can smell someone rotting nearby. He stumbles through the room, fingers scrabbling to find a wall, a light, a weapon, anything. He trips over something and he falls. His hands find what he tripped over, it's slimy and it comes apart in his hands with a sickening give, releasing more of the gag-inducing stench into the thin air. He screams. _

_ It’s a mistake. Above him, footsteps. A square of light illuminates the stares and the mess of what used to be his mother that he’s still lying in. expensive, patent leather shoes come down the stairs, accompanied by the familiar rasp of a whetstone against a cleaver.  _

_ His father still comes, sharpening his blade. Neil scrambles away, but slides in his mother’s viscera, ultimately trapped in the same place. “Junior,” his mother croons, dead arms sliding around him to hold him in place while the Butcher raises his knife- _

Neil is woken by his own screams. His clothes and sheets are soaked in sweat. Moving on autopilot, Neil strips the bed and himself and yanks on running shorts and a sweatshirt. He barely remembers to pull on socks before he shoves his feet into his running shoes and leaves the apartment. He’s running before his feet hit the pavement downstairs. 

Neil loses himself in the rhythm of his body, his breath in his longs, his feet on the concrete, the brush of his elbows against his sides with every step. He focuses on that, on anything besides the nightmare, and the painful death that will inevitably catch up with him.  _ My father’s in prison, _ he reminds himself with every slap of his foot on the ground, each inhale of chilly air into his lungs. It almost helps, but it’s not enough. 

His feet slow as he passes the studio, his keys find their way into his hand and he’s helpless against the call of an empty practice space. If running didn’t help, maybe music will. Neil is so preoccupied with reaching his goal he doesn’t notice that the studio is occupied until he stumbles through the door. 

Kevin’s sure fingers don’t even skip at the unexpected interruption. He looks over at Neil with slight approval and returns his attention to his guitar. Andrew is splayed on his back on the piano bench, feet just barely flat on the floor. He lazily turns his head and sticks Neil with a gaze too bored to be drugged. 

Neil should leave. He should turn around and leave. But he’s forgotten just how potent a performer Kevin is. Even at midnight. Even in his sweatpants in a nearly empty room. Even playing with his non-dominant hand, Kevin is breathtaking. 

Neil wants that. He wants to pour that same passion into his own music. He wants to stand next to Kevin and  _ sing _ . His fingers suddenly itch for his notebook. But if he starts he’ll never be able to stop. Even though he’s failed his mother countless times since her death, he can’t make all of her sacrifices meaningless by stepping out of hiding like that. He needs to at least make it difficult for his father to kill him. 

“Sing with me,” Kevin orders, and Neil’s feet walk him over, his hand reaches out to take the microphone Kevin holds out to him. 

“ _ No _ ,” he chokes, forcing himself backwards. “I’m here to write.”

“Liar,” Andrew says offhandedly. His gaze is disconcerting and it takes a moment for Neil to realize that it’s because even though Andrew’s head and eyes are pointing at him, he’s looking past Neil, at nothing in particular. “You could write in your apartment. You're here to sing. If you won’t sing with Kevin, fine. But I don’t like being lied to.”

“You told me to my face that you were Aaron!” Neil snaps back. He stalks closer to Andrew, who doesn’t react at all. Behind him, Kevin loses patience and goes back to his practice. Being angry at Andrew is better than biting back the urge to join Kevin, so he focuses on that. “Also, I don’t like getting hit in the stomach.”

“Oh, I don’t know, you certainly run like someone who gets hit a lot.” Andrew shrugs carelessly, quite a feat for someone flat on his back. “Sing. Or tell me why you won’t.”

“Or I could just leave,” Neil points out. Andrew’s hands twitch towards his wrists when Neil looms over him so he eases back just a bit, he’s too familiar with people hiding knives to ignore a tic like that. 

“Could you really.” Andrew’s voice is too flat to be a question and Neil shivers because he  _ can’t _ . It’s galling, but Andrew is right. Neil came here to sing and to play, he had never imagined he could do so with Kevin Day and now that they’re both here, he can’t just walk away.

“I should,” Neil shakes his head. “I have made so many bad decisions in the last few months. I will regret them all one day very soon I think. Why are you off your drugs?”

Andrew’s gaze slowly focuses on Neil’s face. “If you sing with Kevin I will tell you.”

“Why do you care if I sing?”

Andrew pulls a red carton out of his pocket and taps out a single cigarette. “If he’s annoying you, he’ll stop annoying me. Keep him occupied and I’ll keep you safe from whoever taught you to run like that.” 

Neil inhales the smoke Andrew exhales. It’s a lie. Andrew can’t protect him from his father. But it doesn’t feel like a lie. Andrew seems unmovable, unbreakable. For one earth shattering moment Neil thinks that if he told him everything, Andrew wouldn’t even blink. It’s a lie. No one can protect Neil from his father. But it's enough for Neil to do what he was always going to do, and walk back over to Kevin and take the mic from his hand. 

He’s screwed from the first word that pours out from his throat in a rich melody. It feels like living and dying in the same breath,  _ and he will never be able to give it up. _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! the next chapter should be up next week! Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been asked about fic playlists and I have 4 because I am, as my therapist says, crazy nutpants.
> 
> Foxy (the Foxes album):  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/778f1CAwocao9N8KRZzXIG
> 
> Happy Pill (the Monsters debut album):  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0TKIPEjUoAULCWpuWec2vC
> 
> and rue (Neil's album):  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5S30z5zSNQy8b8d1qp21Vv
> 
> &
> 
> Kneel (the Monsters sophomore album):  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3b0iUF648hswKlcDvYIYlH

Neil wakes feeling refreshed. The past few days had passed quickly, in a blur of paperwork and bewildering “family” dinners at Wymack’s house with both bands. The dinners were filled with arguments and hurled insults and even a few knives, courtesy of Andrew’s quick temper and unwillingness to tolerate anyone’s hands on anyone he considered his. Despite that, Neil felt oddly comfortable with all of them. He thought that he might not mind writing for them. In fact, his notebook is rapidly filling up with lines and verses about all of them, most of which he feels confident he could coax into full songs if he set his mind to it. 

He hums a few bars as he tears open a protein bar, holding it in his mouth as he bends down to tie his running shoes. His small studio apartment is filled with buttery light and the open window lets in a warm breeze, already muggy despite the early hour. 

He finishes his breakfast and stretches briefly before locking his apartment and jogging down the few flights of stairs and out the door. He points his feet in the direction of the studio and lets his mind wander. Today he is meeting with Andrew and Renee, the main songwriters for their respective bands. He’s come prepared with a few ideas in his notebook, which is tucked in his waistband, flat against his back.

Neil usually prefers to run without music, which makes it easier to detect anyone coming after him, but today he pulls out his cheap ipod and shuffles through the playlist of Foxes and Monsters music. He’s been listening to it on repeat so he can become familiar with Andrew’s and Renee’s styles. His goal is to learn how to write like them, crafting new lyrics along their styles. If he does his job right, his influence won’t even be detected. 

But it’s hard, because Andrew on drugs is something else. His lyrics are clever and so, so fast that only he seems to be able to twist his mouth around them without falling behind the music. Renee prefers feminist pop rock and clever turn of phrase. They’re both challenging and Neil is excited to work with them. If only he didn’t hate and fear them so much.

But Neil has been a liar for as long as he could talk, as he’s long since twisted that skill to write compelling songs. He works best when he has a guide, a person whose head he can crawl around in and pull out lyrics that are almost the truth, and more believable for it. Somehow though, he doesn’t think either Andrew or Renee would appreciate him getting into their heads. 

Neil can’t help the surge of wonder and satisfaction that he feels as his keys smoothly open the door to Foxhole Records. He tries to tell himself that he’s being silly, that it’s only temporary, but the only person he’s never been good at lying to is himself. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t convince himself that being here, doing this, means nothing. 

Neil doesn’t really know what to expect when he enters studio B, but it’s certainly not Renee laughing and talking to Andrew, who is speaking with his usual drug-induced animation and sorting Skittles into little piles by their color. It’s not Andrew’s chattiness that’s surprising, but the obvious warmth that Renee positively glows with. That and the small pile of candies Andrew shoves in her direction. Neil doesn’t know Andrew very well, but he prides himself on his ability to read people and Andrew does not seem like the sharing kind. They are sitting on two of the three wheelie chairs around a small wooden coffee table, Andrew’s feet propped up on the third chair. 

“Neilio Jos-ten!” Andrew spots him and beams, grin forced and brittle. “Come to make our musical dreams come true. How pumped are you, Renee? Look! I’m even wearing my excited face!” he points to his stretched mouth with two middle fingers. 

“It’s nice to see you, Neil.” Renee smiles warmly and gently pulls the third chair out from under Andrew’s booted feet. “Won’t you join us? We were just having a snack.” Andrew glares at her, but gets distracted by the Skittles before he can retaliate. Just to be petty, Neil sits down, rolling neatly out of the range of them both. Renee’s eyes dim as she notices, but her smile remains bright. For one instant, Andrew’s gaze on Neil’s face is sharp enough to cut through his haze of drugs, but it's gone with a blink. 

“Who wants to go first?” Neil asks. He’s never been much for small talk, especially with people he trusts as little as these two. “I assume you each brought a song or two for us to work on?”

“Oh yes, the songs,” Andrew says, twirling his fingers like he’s conducting an orchestra. “Kevin showed me some of your lyrics you know, and my my my what an interesting life you lead, to sing such lies with so much  _ emotion _ ! It is truly inspiring.”

“Renee?” Neil cuts Andrew off, “Would you like to go first?”

Renee nods and picks up her notebook and iphone. Andrew laughs them out of the room. They end up in a small studio a few doors down, perched on stools, with a piano in the corner, a drumset behind them and a guitar within easy reach. “Show me what you have so far,” Neil says, gesturing at Renee’s notebook. 

Renee moves behind the drums and spins her sticks before beating out a solid rhythm for a few bars. She sings a few lines. Renee’s voice is...fine. Easy to listen to, but not compelling. Neil looks past it, she’s not a singer after all, and tries to focus on the lyrics instead. The words are powerful and have the decidedly feminist tilt that The Foxes are so famous for. Neil nods along and walks over to the piano, inserting firm notes between the beats of the snare. “I like it,” he says when Renee stops and looks at him. “It’s powerful and catchy, but you need at least one more verse and I think we should workshop the chorus. What do you think about...” he pulls out his own notebook and jots down a few lines before passing it over to her. 

Renee reads it with a smile that grows with each word. “Allison’s gonna love it, this is her song, you see. ‘...don’t have the time / to bend another church boy’s mind/ again.’ She’s gonna love that line. Kevin was right, You’re really good.”

Neil shrugs uncomfortably, tapping his pencil. He knows that he’s good. It's part of the reason his mom tried to beat it out of him. His voice is recognizable, his lyrics distinctive. It’s still not something he wants to advertise.  _ He shouldn’t be here _ , but it’s so much fun to pull apart the pieces of a song, a story, and rebuild it. 

Two hours pass before they’re satisfied. They name the song ‘Swan’ and Renee is grinning, flushed and thrilled. “I can’t wait to show the rest of The Foxes! Dan’ll want to record it immediately for our next album.”

She wraps her earbuds around her ipod and hops to her feet. “I’ll send Andrew in.”

Neil fights to keep his face impassive and not betray the little jump in his pulse at the idea of being alone with the shorter man. Andrew is dangerous and persistent, especially when he’s protecting his people. Neil is a danger to them, although not in the way Andrew probably imagines. Neil is a talented liar, he knows how to kill and to run, and yet none of that would dissuade Andrew if he truly decided to try and break Neil. 

Renee must read something in his face because she pauses for a moment, looking back at him. She sits back down and eyes him intently. “Do you know what The Foxes and Monsters have in common?” she asks. 

Neil shrugs. “Shitty childhoods?”

Renee laughs. “Besides that.”

Neil stares at her until she continues. “We love a a good wager. We bet on anything and everything. The others are… very interested in my relationship with Andrew. Most of them think we are romantically inclined.” Neil blinks at her, wondering why she’s telling him this. He’s not sure why he should care but he can’t think of a polite way to ask. Neil Josten is quiet and nondescript and above all, immemorable. Rudeness is to be avoided. Still, he’s noticed the odd friendship between the two of them, and heard the others mutter about it. 

“We are not, nor will we ever be.”

“Why not?” Neil asks, mostly just for something to say, but also because he feels an undeniable curiosity about Andrew. It’s based purely on self preservation, he’s sure. But knowledge is power and Neil wants all of it that he can get. 

“I ah… lack the necessary equipment.” Renee looks at Neil sideways, seemingly confused by his blank stare.

“What?”

“Andrew is interested in men, Neil.” Renee almost sounds like she’s laughing at him, but her voice is steady and her eyes clear. 

Oh. Neil thinks back, trying to remember if he’d seen any indication of that. Not that he can think of, but he’s never been very good at identifying sexual interest in anyone. But Nicky doesn’t know, and Aaron and Seth never aim their casual homophobia at Andrew, so they must not know either. So why would Renee tell Neil? “Why are you telling me this?”

Renee laughs and shoves her hands into the pockets of her pastel dress. “I’m not sure,” she admits, turning towards the door. “You’ll have to ask Andrew.”

She leaves before Neil can think of anything else to say. 

\--

Neil does not ask Andrew when he comes in twenty minutes later with hands as empty as his smile. The door slams behind him, wafting enough fresh cigarette smoke in Neil’s direction that he leans into it for a hint of his mothers backhanded comfort before he can stop himself. Andrew notices, but he gets distracted by the drum set before he can comment. 

Neil opens his mouth to comment on Andrew’s lack of writing materials, but before he can, Andrew throws himself down on the stool behind the drums, produces a pair of beat up sticks from his armbands and expertly twirls them between his fingers before he slams them into the drums. It sounds like a car crash, nothing melodic or rhythmic about it, just ear shattering noise. Neil can barely control his wince, but he knows better than to interrupt Andrew’s little show, so he leans back against the wall and waits. He has nowhere pressing to be, after all. 

Eventually, Andrew gets bored and tosses the sticks carelessly over his shoulder. He doesn’t even glance at Neil as he saunters back towards the door. “Where are you going?” Neil demands when it’s clear that Andrew has no intention of sticking around to work. His voice is slightly louder than it normally would be, so he can hear it over the ringing of his ears. 

“Who, me?” Andrew asks, spinning around and fixing Neil with a look of false surprise and innocence. “Are we not done here?”

_ Done here? _ “We haven’t even started!”

“We haven’t? Silly me, expecting you to recognize musical excellence. Silly you, for not realizing that I just played you the whole album!” Neil wants to close his eyes and sigh, but he barely trusts Andrew enough to blink around him. 

“Why save the label if you hate music so much?” he asks. He knows the story, Dan certainly talks about it in interviews enough. After one of Seth Gordon’s more badly timed overdoses and some rather shocking and offensive comments made by some of the older Foxhole artists, public support for the label had plummeted, along with sales. Wymack had missed payments on the studio. Radio stations cut ties, talk show hosts stopped calling for interviews. Two weeks before they would have to declare bankruptcy, Andrew had slouched into Wymack’s office and dropped  _ Smile _ on his desk. 

That single song, recorded and performed by the Foxes to perfection, had single handedly saved the entire studio. 

“Promises to keep,” Andrew says. “And miles to go before I sleep and all that,” he shrugs his shoulder carelessly. 

Neil blinks, utterly lost. “Kevin sent me a bunch of samples you’ve written. It seems like the problem is finishing songs. Is there one you want to work on?” Neil scrolls through the ipod Kevin had shoved into his hand the night before with a pointed glare at Andrew. There are almost twenty song fragments loaded onto it. All of them are fast and clever and give Neil’s stomach a sickening jolt, like a funhouse gone wrong. 

“I do not care,” Andrew says deliberately. Neil shrugs, slides the Ipod into the dock that sits on the table between him and hits shuffle. The speakers are scratchy and old, but they do nothing to detract from the throbbing, heavy beat. All that’s there is the chorus, repeated over and over in Andrew’s throaty voice. Neil taps his pencil to the beat and gnaws on his lip. Andrew watches him with manic eyes, mouthing the words as if he really can’t help himself, which makes him laugh. Despite himself, Andrew drifts back over and slumps on the stool across from Neil with a put upon sigh. 

“I’m a gun, I’m a gun, won’t you shoot me off? Trigger finger will, till I get my happy pill…” 

Neil thinks of the orange bottle in Kevin’s pocket, how Andrew’s eyes had found it immediately, and stuck there. “Songs like this won’t make them want to get you off your meds,” Neil says as the track ends, suddenly, just for something to say. 

Andrew grins, flashing strong white teeth. “Get off of them? But they  _ make _ me so  _ happy!” _

Neil tilts his head. “You mean that literally, don’t you? They literally force you to be happy?” Neil swallows down bile at the idea. He struggles to imagine anything more invasive than someone reaching into his mind to play with his emotions. 

“Oh,” Andrew says, “you’re going to be a problem.”

Neil ignores him and plays the track again, already scribbling in his notebook. “What about that?” he asks once the track has played through another few times. 

“Terrible,” Andrew says, yanking the paper from the book and crumpling it into a ball after he’s read it through twice. The ball lands in the corner of the studio, Neil makes no move to get it. Andrew stares at him, seemingly waiting for something. 

Neil shrugs, looks at the clock on the wall. “I guess we’ll try again next time,” he says, feet falling from the bar part way up his stool to hit the floor. His hands run over his bag proprietarily, making sure everything is in its place before he stands up and walks out the door. Andrew stays right on his heels, breath warm and threatening on Neil’s neck. Every few steps Andrew’s toes catch the back of Neil’s sneakers, making him grit his teeth to avoid turning around and punching the other man. 

He manages to hold onto his temper all the down the hallway to the lounge, where Kevin waits, moodily slumped on the couch. He had wanted to join the writing sessions, but Andrew had banished him with a cheerful threat and a stroke of his covered armbands. 

Neil is petty, so he immediately abandons Andrew to Kevin’s barrage of questions and jogs to the main doors without stopping. 

Neil is stretching, one hand on the external wall of the sleek black car pulls up beside him. Neil flinches so hard he hits his head against the concrete behind him before the window rolls down to reveal Nicky. Andrew leans around him to stare at Neil, he’s laughing, no doubt at Neil’s reaction, but his eyes are calculating. “Neil!” Nicky grins, leaning out the window. “It looks like rain, can we give you a ride? We’re going to Sweeties- you could come with us!”

There is not a chance in hell that Neil’s getting into a car with them. “No thanks,” he forces a smile, “I’m actually getting dinner with Matt and Dan.” Neil waves them off as politely as he can. 

“Boo,” Nicky whines good naturedly, but the grin Andrew shoots him is nothing less than a threat. “Next time?”

Neil jogs off, pretending not to hear. Dan and Matt have invited him upstairs for dinner, but Neil has no intention of taking them up on it. The Monsters don’t need to know that though. 

Despite himself, Neil ducks around a corner when he’s sure the GS has driven away and pulls out the ipod. He hits shuffle just as the rain begins to fall. 

Even in fragments, Andrew’s music makes Neil want to run. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the real songs used in this chapter were:
> 
> Swan by Willa
> 
> Smile by Maisie Peters 
> 
> Happy Pill by grandson and Mob Rich


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads and interacts with this fic, it really means so much to me that you enjoy it!

Neil is just getting out of the shower when the pounding on the door begins. Swearing softly to himself, Neil pulls on a sweatshirt over his damp torso and jogs to the door, snagging a kitchen knife from the block on the counter on the way. He peers through the peephole and tosses the knife into the sink with a clatter before he lets Matt Boyd in. 

“Buddy!” Matt grins, leaning in for a hug. He doesn’t look offended when Neil steps back out of his reach and extends his knuckles for a tap instead. “Nicky just texted, I’m so glad you’re gonna join us for dinner. Renee and Seth are already cooking and Dan’s on drinks. Are you ready to go?”

“Uh,” Neil says stupidly, cursing himself for telling Nicky about the invitation. He hadn’t intended on going at all, but now he’s stuck. “Sure,” he says awkwardly, picking up his keys and glancing around the apartment to make sure everything is where it should be. “Lead the way.” 

Matt talks all the way upstairs, telling Neil about the band and their upcoming tour and how excited The Foxes are to incorporate Neil’s sound. “Kevin showed us the video that bar owner took of you. He may be a raging asshole, but he sure does know his music. We are so thrilled to have you here, man.” Matt looks and sounds so earnest, so real and sincere that Neil can’t help but smile back at him. 

“Neil!” the rest of The Foxes chorus when he follows Matt into the apartment. The apartment is much bigger than Neil's. The Foxes live in the penthouse which has three distinct suites branching off of the main areas, including a homey living room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the commercial part of the city. Through wide french doors, Neil spots a formal dining room, which has been converted to a music room. There is a beaten up piano next to several guitars, a bass and drum set. The table is completely covered by sheet music, notebooks and empty coffee mugs. The floor plan is open concept, so Neil looks straight into the large kitchen, warm and fragrant with simmering tomatoes and garlic and browning meat. 

Music drifts softly through hidden speakers, a lush mix of ballads, sultry vocals and acoustic versions of both Foxes and Monsters music. Renee hums as she stirs the sauce, swaying and smiling warmly when she spots Neil. Seth glowers and slices a loaf of french bread down the middle with pointed intent. Neil’s eyes linger on the knife block that sits by the stove, well within Renee’s arms reach and takes two steps backwards before following Matt to the wetbar along the back of the living room. 

Dan laughs from behind the bar, pouring two colorful cocktails from a stainless steel shaker and sliding them across the bar to Matt and Allison. “What can I get you, Neil?” Dan asks warmly, gesturing behind her towards the extensive collection of half full bottles on display. 

“I don’t drink,” Neil replies, trying to figure out where to go. Matt and Allison have taken over the stools at either end of the bar. The obvious choice is to take the remaining spot between them, but Neil doesn’t relish the prospect of placing himself between two strangers. 

“Neither does Renee,” Dan says easily, “we have plenty of soda or juice, and I think there’s a pitcher of sweet tea somewhere…” she looks around with a frown. 

“Nah,” Allison says, “Seth and I mixed that with the whiskey.” 

“Not that cheap shit!” Dan protests, wrinkling her nose. 

“Soda’s fine,” Neil cuts in, grateful that he won’t have to force down that god awful southern staple. It tastes like over sweetened pencil shavings and lingers on his tongue for hours. Soda isn’t much better, but it’s something that normal people drink and he’ll nurse it all night. 

“Dinner!” Renee calls, and Matt lets out a relieved little sigh and follows the girls to the dining room. Neil palms his cold drink and joins them. He’s seated between Dan and Allison at the large rectangular table in the middle of the kitchen, where an island usually would be. He doesn’t say much, but he allows Matt to pile pasta and fresh meat sauce onto his plate, although he turns his nose up at the salad. 

The conversation flows like the liquor, easy and fast and comfortable. They tell Neil about their parents, Allison and Seth with a sneer and Renee and Matt with obvious warmth. There’s a brief moment of awkwardness when they ask about his family, but they accept Neil’s vague answers with grace. 

Neil has almost cleared his plate by the time Dan asks Renee about the recording session. Renee smiles at Neil like he’s in on some joke with her. “We finished that song I was working on for Allison,” she tells Dan. 

Dan’s eyebrow shoots up in surprise. “Finished it?” she echoes, “I thought you just had the chorus and a concept.”

Renee wrinkles her nose thoughtfully, “I did,” she agrees, “but Neil took it and ran with it and we got it done.”

Matt shoots Neil an impressed look. Neil drags his fork through his sauce and avoids their eyes. He’s never written for anyone else before, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to this. “Yeah yeah,” Allison says rudely, waving her hands and cutting off whatever Matt was going to say, “I wanna hear it.”

“Oh,” Renee says, standing up, “let me find my ipod,” she wanders out of the room. Dan watches her until she disappears towards her bedroom before rounding on Neil.

“Renee and Andrew were at the studio when you got there right?” she asks quietly. 

“What were they doing?” Allison demands, also leaning in. 

Seth shoots a look over his shoulder at the door Renee vanished behind. “Kissing?” he prompts. 

“What,” Neil says, surprise ripping his gaze up from his plate. 

“We think they’re together,” Matt explains. “They gotta be, she’s the only person he seems to actually like.”

“We’ve got a bet,” Allison confides, “and if you saw them together, like  _ together  _ together, I’ll cut you in.”

“Hey!” Seth protests, “that’s bribery!”

Neil stares at them in confusion. “What?” he says again. “No, Andrew’s-” he stops himself, thinks about what Renee told him and reconsiders. “They were just talking. I think they’re just friends.”

“Ugh, that’s what she says,” Dan complains. Allison opens her mouth to say something, but Renee glides back into the room, ipod in hand. She winks at Neil as she passes him, clearly knowing what they’d been discussing, but she doesn’t seem remotely bothered by it. 

“Found it,” she says, plugging the device into the speaker and swirling her thumb around the wheel to cue it up. 

“I’m gonna go,” Neil mutters, as the rhythmic piano thrums from the speakers. 

Dan wants to protest, but she’s distracted by the song, so Neil tosses a half hearted wave and takes off before they remember their manners and insists that he stay longer. 

This time, Neil takes the stairs down to his apartment. He’s tired and warm and his belly is full of good food. It’s dangerous to like The Foxes, but it's hard to remember why while he’s being pulled so thoroughly into their group. He can’t afford to trust any one, or let his guard down. That’s how he gets killed. At the very least, if they become attached to him they’ll kick up a fuss when he disappears and make it harder for him to start over when it’s time to go. 

No. It’s better to keep his distance.

He can almost smell his mothers cigarettes as he enters his apartment. 

Neil inhales deeply and his stomach drops eyes flashing to the crushed pack of Marlboro Reds that lays next to an old lighter on the windowsill. He keeps them there only for emergencies, only lights them when the nightmares tear him from sleep and drip sweat and panic down his back until his heart is pounding like it’s going to give out. If he lights them any more than that, they’ll lose their ability to trick his body into thinking he’s safe, that someone has his back. If he uses them too often, his body will remember that his mother is dead. 

He hasn’t needed them since coming here, not yet. 

But if someone unwelcome broke in and saw them sitting there, they might feel safe enough to smoke while they rifled through his-

Neil throws himself at his bed with an inarticulate cry, panic making him clumsy as he digs around underneath it until his fingers scrabble against the loose board. One of his nails bends back painfully, and the slight tang of blood in his mouth when he brings it to his mouth calms him just enough to look carefully as he examines the bag. 

It looks untouched, exactly how he left it. The thread is still firmly placed between the teeth of the zipper. Neil frowns and runs his fingers over its fraying ends, but he can’t remember if he placed a new one the last time he repacked his things. 

Biting his lip, he carefully lays it next to him on his rumpled bedspread. The bag is almost empty without his carefully folded clothes filling all the gaps between the important things. It sags back around itself like a hungry mouth as he pulls it open, critically eyeing his binder, the small collection of unactivated burner phones, colored contact lenses and the notebook that he fills with his own personal lyrics, not the ones that belong to others. 

Bile rises in his throat as he examines his binder. The money is still there, the pages full of carefully hidden codes haven’t been torn out, although there’s no way for Neil to be sure that they haven’t been photographed or copied. The binder was designed to be embarrassing, but now that Neil is in regular contact with Kevin, it feels creepy and invasive. 

Neil smooths his hand over the binders cover and puts it down next to the red thread. He picks up his leather bound journal and opens it with care. Stitched into the binding is a black ribbon meant to be used as a bookmark. Neil keeps it folded over itself exactly one inch down the page, held in place by the closed journal. The ribbon still rests between the right pages, but it is smooth and flat. Neil swears in three languages, vicious and furious. 

Neil inhales lingering cigarette smoke and scoops up one of the burner phones, activating it with numb fingers. Neil stalks over to the counter where he left the Wymack’s paperwork, and he swipes through them until he finds the scrap of paper Matt and Dan have scribbled their phone numbers on. 

Matt picks up on the third ring. “Uh, hello?” 

“Hi Matt,” Neil says, forcing calm into his voice, clenching his hands to stop them from shaking. “It’s Neil.”

“Neil! What’s up buddy?”

“Do you know where the cousins live?” he asks, “Nicky just invited me over, but he forgot to send me his address and if I call back he’s going to tell me all about his sex life for a half an hour and I just don’t want to listen to that right now.”

Matt laughs a bit awkwardly. “Are you sure you want to go over there? The Monsters, well, they’re dangerous, it might be best if you-”

“Matt,” Neil tries to laugh, “I have to work with them too, I can’t do that if I avoid them. Do you have the address?”

“Huh,” Matt says, “sure,” he rattles off an address, Neil repeats it to himself until it’s memorized. “Let me drive you,” Matt offers, “I’ll grab my keys and we’ll go right now.”

“Don’t bother,” Neil says, “Nicky just texted that he’s going to pick me up. Thanks anyway!” he snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the bed, shoving his feet into his sneakers and slipping his windbreaker over his shoulders. Locking the door behind him seems redundant now, but he does it anyway. 

It's raining, but Neil’s blood is still pumping too hotly to be cooled by a little water. He didn’t bother looking up directions before he left his apartment, but he’s found his way around far larger and more complicated cities than Columbia. He finds one of the cross streets and follows away from the city proper to the suburbs. It takes him twenty minutes to find the house - a rundown, cookie cutter thing, incongruous with what he knows of The Monsters.

Neil doesn’t bother knocking. He drops to his knees on the fading gray-painted porch and plucks at the seam of his jacket until his fingers find his lockpicks, which he uses to open all three of the locks they’ve installed.  _ Paranoid little shits, _ he thinks viciously, glaring at the GS parked in the drive-way as he listens for the tell tale click of the tumblers falling into place. 

Most of The Monsters are lounging in the living room, watching some movie on TV. Kevin has his headphones on, curled in an armchair, taking notes. Nicky and Aaron are sprawled on the couch, arguing over snacks. They look up with comical expressions of surprise and confusion on their faces when Neil barges in. He ignores them. He is not here for them.

“We locked that,” Aaron says in German. 

“Sure did,” Nicky replies in the same language, before smiling hesitantly at Neil. “Hey, Neil, what’s uh… what’s up?” he asks, in English this time. 

_Nicky texted us-_ Matt had said when he collected Neil for dinner. _To get him away from his stuff._

Neil bites back a stream of angry German,  _ fuck  _ them for thinking they could talk about him with impunity. He’d make them choke on that arrogance. He rounds on Kevin instead, marching over and ripping the headphones off his head and chucking them at the cousins. He sidesteps Kevin’s clumsy attempt to hit him. “What the fuck! Neil? What are you doing here?”

“Tell your pet psychopath to stay the  _ fuck _ out of my things,” Neil growls in French. It’s no secret that Kevin speaks the language, but he’s willing to bet the cousins can’t. 

All three jaws drop in surprise, and there’s a slow clap from the doorway. Neil looks up and finds Andrew staring at him, crazed grin firmly in place. “Oh look,” he says to no one, “Neil’s come to play. Unfortunately, I don’t like to share my toys, so keep your hands off of them or I’ll have to break your fingers, and then how will you hold that pencil of yours, hmm?” Andrew runs his eyes possessively over his band mates, hands hovering over his armbands. 

“Oh, yes.” Neil agrees, “It’s  _ so rude _ to touch other people’s things.” Sarcasm drips from every word like poison, rage and fear leaking from his every pore. 

“What the  _ fuck _ is happening?” Aaron demands from behind him, back in german. 

“Who let him in?” Andrew asks in the same language. 

“No one!” Nicky yelps defensively. “I swear!”

Neil takes two aggressive steps towards Andrew, who steps right up to him, blade suddenly flicking into his hands. Neil barely controls his flinch at the sight of it, but he’s too angry to be afraid and he’s endured far more pain than what Andrew could carve out of him with that cheap knife. “Touch my stuff again and I’ll kill you,” he warns, taking advantage of all two of the inches he has on Andrew. He still feels small when Andrew leans in, knife gently tapping against the skin of his throat, enough to sting, but not enough to make him bleed. 

“Jesus Christ!” Nicky moans, but Neil isn’t sure who he’s talking to. 

“Knock it off!” Kevin orders, “the album’s not going to write itself!”

“Oh, Neil,” Andrew breathes, sick light gleaming in his honey eyes. “Oh, no. You’ve gone and made yourself interesting now. How many layers of skin do you think I’ll have to remove to cut through all your lies? I think I might enjoy finding out.”

“Ah, fuck!” someone says from the doorway, but Neil can’t risk glancing away from Andrew long enough to look. 

“Andrew?” Renee asks, cautiously approaching them. She holds up a hand to stop Matt from tackling the other drummer and Neil steps away from the knife, but he can’t quite suppress his fathers smile. 

“What did you do to him, Andrew?” Dan demands angrily, striding over. Nicky and Aaron immediately protest their innocence, but Dan ignores them. “Are you okay?” she asks Neil, eyes running over him, looking for blood. 

“What do you think, Neil?” Andrew asks, widening his eyes innocently. “Should I tell them? Maybe we can all put our heads together and figure out _what it all means-”_

“Nothing happened, Dan,” Neil says quickly. “I’m fine, we were just talking.”

“ _ Talking?” _ Dan snaps, “he had a knife to your throat! I’m calling Wymack, he needs to hear about this-”

“Wymack needs to hear so very much, doesn’t he, Neil? Let's talk about it over a drink. Come out with us on Friday.” It’s an order, not a request and Neil suddenly feels like he’s walked right into a trap. It’s mutually assured destruction, Andrew might get a slap on his wrist for the knife, but he’ll take Neil down with him, bringing all of Neil’s little secrets out into the open. 

Neil grits his teeth until he thinks they’re going to shatter. “Yes,” he forces out reluctantly. 

“Absolutely not!” Dan snaps. 

“This is none of your business, Wilds. Neil isn’t in your band and if you say one more word while you trespass on my property I’ll cut out your tongue,” Andrew says softly. 

“Okay!” Renee says hastily, turning her back to Andrew and using her whole body to block Matt’s from attacking him. “Okay, we’re leaving, Andrew. I’m sorry we just barged in here, we were worried for Neil. We’re going now.” she says firmly, herding her bandmates towards the door. 

“Neil’s coming with us,” Matt says belligerently, pulling Dan in closer to his side. 

“Goodbye now.” Andrew slams the door so close behind them that Neil feels his hair blow forward. 

“What the fuck?” Matt says a few minutes later, when they’ve all piled into his truck and pulled out of the driveway. “Neil, what just happened?”

“Nothing,” Neil insists, curling his body towards the window and fighting not to be sick. “Simple misunderstanding.” He wants to curl up and sleep for the next ten years. He wants to run. He can do neither. He wishes desperately that Andrew hadn’t found his stash and forced his hand. 

“You aren’t really going to go with them, are you?” Dan demands. “It’s not safe, they do some real fucked up shit at that club.”

“I’ll be fine, Dan,” Neil says wearily. He needs to think. He’ll have to tell Andrew something, convince him that he’s not a threat, that all he wants is to be left alone. 

“Neil-”

“Andrew was right,” Renee says softly, “this isn’t our business, Dan. Neil is an adult and we should respect his decisions.” She turns to face Neil. “We usually order dinner and have a movie night on Friday’s, if you wanted another option.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Neil lies and looks out the window at the raindrops racing down the glass. He thinks about running, but the prospect is so exhausting that he focuses on the weight of the studio key in his pocket and the signed contract that bears his name, written in ink. 

  
_ I have time _ , Neil reminds himself. Nathan is still in jail, his mother is still dead, and he wants to  _ stay. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr @ elesary if you want to come talk to me!


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